


Five Steps

by tokillthatmockingbird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, isaac reacts to a stupid question, mentions of child abuse, set in season 2 after he's been cleared of murder charges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokillthatmockingbird/pseuds/tokillthatmockingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know you should have told somebody about what your father was doing to you,” John says. “We could have helped.”</p>
<p>A derisive laugh bubbles on Isaac’s lips. “A little late for that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Steps

Isaac is huddled up in the sheriff’s office. He’s wearing a coat, but John insisted on wrapping him in a shock blanket. It's itchy and far too hot, and Isaac feels his palms sweating, even though he has a feeling it isn’t because of the warmth.

John backs into the office, toting two mugs of steaming liquid and nudging the door shut with an echoing bang. John must see Isaac’s cringe because his face folds into one of pity. He stares over his shoulder. “Want me to keep it open?” Isaac shakes his head. “We could have one of the female officers come in if you want.”

  
Isaac doesn’t want that. Isaac doesn’t want anything except maybe for the 49ers to get to the Super Bowl and to chuck this shock blanket into a bonfire. He’s not thinking of the fact that he’s been cleared for murder, not thinking of the fact that his father was _murdered_. He’s not thinking much at all, really, except maybe that this is the last place he wants to be.

“I’ve got to ask you a few routine questions, just to close up the case.” John slides one of the mugs across the table, and Isaac takes it in his hands. He doesn’t notice he’s trembling until he watches the liquid slosh onto his lap. Ignoring the stinging heat on his thighs, he gently sets the mug back.

The questions are definitely routine. Name. Relationship to the deceased. Address. Date of birth. Isaac doesn’t will himself to answer, but the words fumble off his tongue anyway.

“You know you should have told somebody about what your father was doing to you,” John says. “We could have helped.”

A derisive laugh bubbles on Isaac’s lips. “A little late for that.”

Silence passes.

Isaac waits.

He thinks about taking another stab at the coffee. He’s really thirsty.

“Why didn’t you leave?” John asks, and Isaac notices that he’s pushed the clipboard aside. This is unprofessional curiosity, and Isaac feels his blood boil at the invasive question.

Isaac often wondered this same thing. Why _had_ he spent eight years with a man who violated his trust and his safety on a bi-daily basis? He thinks about his answer, takes the mug in two hands and sips. John gives him breathing room and time. Isaac cannot remember the last time someone gave him those two things.

Unceremoniously, he sets the cup back, empty. He vaguely wonders how long he’s been thinking. John leans back in his chair, non-combative but intent.

 

“ _T_ _he first step to any violent relationship is charming the victim._ ”

It wasn’t charming at first. It was just being a father. Isaac remembers sitting on David’s shoulders as the family parted through crowds at the parish carnival. He remembers his father buying him cotton candy even though Mom said it would ruin his teeth. He remembers showing off blue tongues in the bathroom mirror that night, before they brushed their teeth together.

He remembers his father turning on the sprinkler in the summers when the sun was too hot to enjoy. Remembers emerald blades of grass sticking to his feet as Camden wrestled him through the stream of water, his father watching from the front stoop, a glass of lemonade in hand and Rocket Pops melting in the cooler behind him.

He remembers how his father tucked him into bed the night of his mother’s funeral, how David himself could barely keep it together, but he still found time to make sure Isaac was okay.

He remembers how much his father loves him, so he didn’t really notice when it changes.

 

“ _The second step is to isolate them.”_

It was subtle isolation at first.

Be home by five o’clock.

You can’t join the science club because it takes up too much of your time.

I’ll walk you to the bus stop; don’t wait for your friends.

It sounded fatherly and protective, and no one wanted to argue with a man’s right to raise his child the way he wanted. But the subtlety quickly devolved into something much more painfully obvious, banning him from going to friend’s houses after school or on the weekends, telling him that friends could only stop by for an hour at a time. No more playing soccer on the streets with the neighborhood friends. They had a back yard he could use, so use it.

Before Isaac knew it, he was the only kid in the whole third grade who wasn’t invited to Jackson Whittemore’s birthday party. He spent the entire day watching the festivities from his bedroom window, alone.

 

“ _The next step is to introduce the threats of violence and see how they react._ "

How are you _supposed_ to react when your father says he’ll kill you for forgetting to take the trash out? It’s a threat that was always thrown so carelessly around at school, a trivialized phrase that is as meaningless as the “uh”s and “um”s that Isaac stammered between his words.

I’ll kill that twerp for knocking my lunch tray out of my hands.

I’m gonna kill that teacher if she gives us another test.

Isaac was only seven the first time his father threatened the buckle of his belt as a punishment. But he remembered the cotton candy and the Rocket Pops and just how much his father loved him. And he thought that if his father really loved him, he’d do what was best for him. Isaac was young and didn’t know enough of the world to know that vague life threats were unhelpful and ultimately detrimental.

When David said, “I’ll beat your ass if you fail another test,” Isaac thought it was a smart way to get him to do better in school. He thought it was smart until he failed another test.

 

“ _Then, the abuse starts.”_

All the Internet sites said that the physical abuse typically occurred in stages: throwing things, then striking with objects, then using fists. Programmed escalation, time for Isaac to prepare for the next horror.

It wasn’t like that for him.

His dad unclipped his belt when Isaac was eight years old and promptly punched Camden square in the jaw for trying to intervene. This was not a 5-step program. There was no order. It was just pure physical chaos. Threats were actually promises, and promises were actually threats, and anything, really _anything_ could be used as a weapon. When Camden left for the army, David nearly choked him with his dog tags.

The abuse wasn’t a system of punishment as much as it was a system of release disguised as such. Leaving the dishes in the sink was not grounds for a broken rib, but it was an excuse to break them.

His father loved him.

Once.

And now, with Camden gone, there was no one around to help. And even if there were people to help, they’d just think Isaac was so stupid for waiting so long to jump into action. All the signs were there. How could not take a death threat seriously? Wasn’t this whole thing Isaac’s fault anyway?

 

_“And here's something we victims know that you non-victims usually don’t. That it’s really dangerous to leave an abuser ‘cause the final step in the domestic violence pattern is kill them."_

David caught Isaac talking to the mailman one day, head wedged out of a crack in the door. David stormed up behind him and threw the door open, thanking the man for his service and then slamming the door in his face. At fifteen, Isaac had been through enough to understand the next step, but if he knew how to run away, he forgot how because he stood rooted to the ground watching death stalk towards him.

When he came to, it was with bruises around his throat and aches in his joints. He was on the floor of the living room with dried spit on his face and a trail of blood stuck below his nose.

All he had done was ask about the mailman’s new route.

He was always too scared to find out what would happen if he actually told the man where his black eye had come from.

  


Isaac has up five fingers, and when he finally makes eye contact with John, the man looks embarrassed.

“Five steps. You guys should learn them. Then maybe you could find abused kids _before_ they end up like me,” Isaac says, and the nonchalance in his voice even sends chills up his own spine. He feels confidence surging through him like champagne bursting out of a bottle. Like his father has been pushing so hard down on the cork that when it’s finally he released, it cannot be stopped. “And since when it is up to the victim to save themselves? What about the doctors who fixed my broken bones? What about the teachers who saw the bruises? At least _they_ weren’t at risk for getting killed if they said something.”

Isaac is on his feet, shedding his blanket, straightening his clothes.

“So, I don’t know if you should be asking me why I didn’t leave. Maybe the better question is, why didn’t someone save me?”

John has no answer. Isaac has every right to be angry, and he’s been so for a long time. But just like his confidence, his father stoppered the anger and replaced it with fear. For so long, Isaac’s tongue had been tied by fear of punishment. Given the chance to speak freely, he does so. John just didn’t expect it.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a funeral to plan.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to do a little bit of a character study with Isaac. At the beginning, he was introduced as so angry and sarcastic, and I wanted to explore that a little bit because I haven't. The five steps found in this fic are taken from the wonderful TedTalk "Why domestic violence victims don't leave" by Leslie Morgan Steiner. It can be found on YouTube!


End file.
